


For family will I give

by ironcy



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Feels, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Relationship(s), Piltover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28261893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironcy/pseuds/ironcy
Summary: It's not been long since Hakim Naderi left her on the surgery table and with him, she lost the only person she cared about. Her brother doesn't make adjusting any easier.
Relationships: Hakim Naderi/Camille Ferros
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	For family will I give

**Author's Note:**

> sad sad sad camille and fuck stevan ferros!! Also I can't tag Hakim or Stevan because they have no content whatsoever and I want to change that.

The candle flickered, wax dripping onto the dark mahogany table. It was already stained with countless spots – spilt tea and dried ink drawing abstract patterns. She ignored the old books, schematics, crumpling a piece of paper in her hand instead before dropping it onto the ground next to an empty liquor bottle. Sometime along the evening, it had rolled off the edge of the table and she’d made no attempt to pick it up. Camille lifted her second glass – because she wouldn’t stoop as low as to drink straight from the bottle – taking a sip. It burnt her esophagus and she swallowed thickly around the lump in her throat that made it difficult to drink. To breathe.  
She set the glass down and coughed wetly, her sight blurry with tears. They fell quickly – she tasted salt on her lips – wetting the schematics in front of her. They were already tearstained and soaked, writing and pencilling no longer precise and clear cut, a futile attempt to forget. As was her drinking.  
She was sufficiently drunk – hell, anybody who wasn’t augmented would’ve blacked out after nearly two bottles of liquor. But even through her haze, the thoughts crawled into her mind, gripping her, leeching on her. Yet another failed attempt. One of many. Camille formed her hands to fists, dropping her head onto the table. She’d let her hair down, it stuck to her clammy skin messily, a veil of white. “I’m sorry…” She whispered to the schematics, placing a gentle kiss onto the soaked paper. Anger flared up simultaneously, hot, white anger. She couldn’t even get wasted. There was no escape – she should’ve known that a long time ago. “For family…” She recited.

“Will I give.”  
Camille startled, lifting her head from the table. Somebody had finished the Ferros’ family motto. Stevan. Of course he was above any manners, above knocking. He was the clan leader, he pranced around their family mansion as if it was him who’d brought them glory. Him who had sacrificed their heart. Camille’s face contorted with anger and she whipped around. It only made him chuckle and her wince, pressing her hand against her forehead. She felt dizzy, the small room spinning around her. Damn. “You’re drunk, dear sister.” His tone was so obviously amused she wanted to spin and kick him, but she remained unmoving, waiting for the nausea and vertigo to die down. “Tell me. Don’t you think you’ve been overdoing it lately? I know it’s not the first time you came here to drink… And cry.”  
Camille winced, wiping her eyes. They were swollen and red and she squinted at Stevan’s blurred visage. “Do you regret the augmentations? Is it that, Camille?” He had gone cold, only a small tremor in his low timbre reminding her that his heart fluttered and jumped in his chest. That he was straining to compose himself, leaning against the doorway not to be casual, but to preserve what little strength remained in his scrawny body. 

“No…” She heard her voice catch in her throat, then crack, squinting at her younger brother. “Don’t tell me it’s him…”  
Camille braced herself. Stevan couldn’t physically injure her – but the words cut far deeper, slicing away the rest of her feeble defenses. Him. Hakim. She shook her head in protest, but her glossy eyes betrayed her, her shoulders shaking with effort to stop herself from crying. A single sob clawed its way out of her throat before she choked herself off uncomfortably, fumbling for the bottle of liquor. Stevan made no attempt to stop her. “My, my, Camille…” His thin lips curled into a smile and Camille averted her gaze. He liked seeing her suffer. It brought him pleasure being able to watch her crumple, her face clothes and swollen, dark smears underneath her eyes, the red of lipstick staining her liquor glass. Maybe it made him feel in power – he’d always been jealous of her. As long as she fulfilled her duties, Stevan paid no attention to how much alcohol she consumed. Her metabolism was accelerated, any traces of a hangover over within a few hours – she’d never failed a mission since the augmentation. Yet at the same time, she’d never been as miserable. 

“What do you want?” She asked flatly, her voice breaking as she lifted her glass, downing the contents with one gulp. It hurt like hell and she coughed and gasped, pressing her hand against her chest. She was met with cold metal and the crystal, glowing iridescently. Her heart. The one that was supposed to take away her humanity – her feelings.  
Then why does it hurt this much, eh, Hakim? You thought you were carving away my emotions… I wish you had. 

“Get ahold of yourself,” Stevan said through her coughing fit. Camille lowered her head, hunching over on the chair, staring at the messy ground. Her lips were parted, she was struggling to inhale, each wheezy breath making her shudder, her chest tightening with pain. Oh, Gods, make it stop. She whimpered involuntarily. The floor was closer than it had been previously, wasn’t it? She squinted, finding herself on her knees. She’d crashed to the ground, barely registering any pain – it was more of a wonderous experience, being on her legs and hands, the sharp blades digging into her thighs. She bit down on her lips to stop the small cry from escaping, feeling her trousers wet with blood. Camille dropped to her side unceremoniously, thudding to the ground, her gaze flickering like the burnt out candle. The room was turning above her, smears of colors and she wept, pulling her knees to her chest until she lay in a fetal position..  
“Camille.” Even through her drunken haze, she hears the evident smirk in Stefan’s voice. She imagined him tilting his head, stepping into the room to examine the stained desk, the tearstained documents that Hakim had left. She shuddered when she felt his hand brush over her hair, recoiling involuntarily. It made her want to be sick, but she was far too drowsy to swat his hand away. “Oh, Camille…” Stevan leaned back on the chair she’d previously occupied, staring down at his older sister. “You were always the loved one. You had everything and I had nothing,” he said sharply. He was about to launch into one of his beloved monologues – ones that praised the name Ferros, how they toward above all in Piltover, how he had led them to success. 

“I didn’t choose this…” Her voice was a husk, a breathy whisper. She clung to the remaining sliver of consciousness, whatever dignity she could retain – not much, collapsed on the floor in front of her brother. “Don’t lie, it doesn’t suit you well,” he interrupted sharply. “I know you welcomed your training. And now you have everything you want.” He laughed, the noise ringing in her ears. Camille wanted to press her hands on them, drown out the noises around her, but she resisted the urge, blinking, her glistening blue eyes focusing on his. She had cried all her tears, now her face was dry. “I’ll tell you what you are, dear sister.” He was so close she could feel his warm, wheezing breaths against her nape as he kneeled down with a grunt. “You are a traitor. You would’ve betrayed our house with a peasant Shuriman if I hadn’t knocked some sense into you.”  
Oh, words cut far deeper than knives. He had stabbed her – metaphorically – twisting the blade before yanking it out and leaving her alone, to bleed. It wasn’t fair. Hakim, come back. Please, come back to me.

“Trouble staying conscious?” Again that breathy laugh, this time accompanied by a harsh cough. She could almost taste the blood in his mouth, picturing the white tissue he pressed against his lips. “Sleep. I need you at your fullest tomorrow. We’re gonna see what that heart of yours is capable of, hm?”  
Camille felt herself being yanked – for a brief moment, she was certain he was going to drag her to bed instead of allowing her to sleep on the cold wooden floor. But instead, he pushed her onto her side, tucking her hand underneath her head. “I don’t want you to choke, dearest sister. What would I do without my intelligencer?” She hadn’t heard Stevan chuckle as much in a long time. How much he reveled in her misery. Camille felt a cool breeze. He’d opened the door and was going to leave. “Sleep well, dear…” He smirked.


End file.
